


I Never Will Prove False

by Ziera117



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt and comfort, Hurt!Caleb, Messy and unrefined but why not, Prompt Response, Protective!Ben, Tallster, Tw: description of torture, and I need more sadness?, as my fics usually are, because that episode killed me, platonic or not idk, protective!Caleb, rewrite of 4x03, so this is a quick, written at 2am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziera117/pseuds/Ziera117
Summary: “Ben,” Caleb found himself saying, too softly for others to hear, his dark eyes now eagerly seeking Ben’s blue ones. "Tell me this isn't what you're planning, you idiotic piece of shite."Prompt: Benjamin Tallmadge trades himself for Caleb instead of involving the Woodhulls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends. I'm currently dying over the latest episode-- drowning in my own tears, to be specific. So here's a prompt I got that stated: Benjamin Tallmadge trades himself for Caleb instead of involving the Woodhulls. I just ran with it and wrote a tiny thing, (really late at night please forgive all the mistakes that are probably in there) so please enjoy the thing. 
> 
> Reminder that group therapy begins next week; I'll bring the cookies.

Bloody saliva welled in Caleb’s mouth from when he’d bitten his tongue to keep from screaming. His head lulled about the strong arm that supported his weight; the hold was firm, but not as rough as it could be, Caleb thought, though it was the least of his concerns.

Caleb’s entire body felt as if it were freezing and burning all at once. His limbs were heavy, his marred flesh smeared and sticky with the thickness of his own blood.

Pain was everywhere.

It was in his wounds, first—a paralyzing ache that spread from each cut, burn, and “touch” given by Simcoe.

It was behind his eyes, second. If Caleb closed them, he relived each wound’s acquisition in his mind’s vision, and the slightest flashback left him utterly sickened. God, he needed sleep—but he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , close his eyes.

Though, oddly enough, it wasn’t the physical pain or weariness that dwelled in Caleb’s mind the most. No… the real reason he couldn’t close his eyes and relive it all, was that he might uncover the memory he dreaded in his heart beyond all the other abuse.

The moment when Caleb revealed the names of his friends, in the “twilight of pain”. Betrayal was what it had been, and that betrayal dug deeper than Caleb ever could have expressed.

Not only betrayal of his closest friends—Ben, Annie, Abe—or of his country, but a betrayal of his own character. His own strength, that he naively harbored so much confidence in, he could never trust in again.

Had he really given up so easily?

Shame wasn’t enough to describe what depth of weakness he experienced at being _broken_.  Pain—yes, it was pain, but a different sort. It was the kind that went far beyond the physical, and this wound of the mind would likely never heal.

Caleb was by no means done with the fight. Though guilt of what he’d done—of his own weakness—continued to choke him, Caleb would be damned if any of it showed on his face for his enemies to see.

Caleb Brewster kept a grim smile to mask his wince as the Ranger hauled him over a protruding root from the forest floor. They fumbled toward the exchange site together, his arm under Caleb’s, accompanied by three other bloody-backs sent to oversee the trade.

There were four men in the party; the one with long hair tied back began to speak first when they arrived at the exchange.

Caleb felt, rather than saw, his captor stop at the line between the territories. Wasn’t sure why—but he found himself unwilling to look at the men who had come to exchange for his life.

He wasn’t worth it, not after what he did.

But the voice Caleb heard first drew his eyes anyway, despite his resolve against it. “Caleb.”

It was Ben. He had shed his uniform in favor of a black coat that buttoned down the front, his brown hair mostly concealed by a wide-brimmed hat on his head to complete the ‘civilian’ visage.

As he looked, Caleb barely heard the major demand to know – “What have you done to him?” – beyond noticing that the only Continental Soldiers present were two unimportant bastards Ben brought with him from camp.

Where…where were the others?

Caleb knew he was to be traded, but beyond that knowledge, no one revealed to him the identity of who would be traded in his place. And if only these nameless soldiers arrived, and Ben… No, this was wrong.

Dread settled deep into his heart, and ominous fear quickened its beating. His grim smile faded into a hard line as realization began to transform his countenance.

“Hey!” Replied the long-haired lobster in charge of the group. In response, Caleb registered in the back of his mind, to the protest of his gaping wounds. “There weren’t no terms for his constitution. Just that he was livin’.”

“Ben,” Caleb found himself saying, softly at first, his dark eyes now eagerly seeking Ben’s blue ones. _Tell me this isn’t what you’re planning, you idiotic piece of shite._ All physical injury was, for a moment, forgotten in the sea of insults that piled at the tip of his tongue.

The short soldier that stood at Ben’s right sneered, reaching for his gun. “Well I’m sure that we could find a way to even it out—“

“No, no. There’ll be no blood for blood today,” Ben gripped the man’s arm, forcing him to stop while holding out a reassuring hand to Caleb’s threatened escorts. “Stand down.”

“You Benjamin Tallmadge?” Pony-tail asked, gesturing at Ben, who nodded in return. Icy claws dug into Caleb’s stomach.

“I am.”

His throat was raw from screaming, and his voice seemed to stick in his throat, but Caleb tried again. “ _Benny_.” It held all the warning and care of one persuading another man away from a deadly ledge, which this certainly was.

Benjamin Tallmadge finally looked at him, finally met his eyes—but the steely resolve within them, was enough to sober Caleb immediately. There were no games now, no charades or facades, and if he knew Benjamin Tallmadge at all— everything was exactly how he feared it to be.

The Pony-tail lobster-back nodded. “Then you’ll be coming with us.”

“You can be certain, Sir, that I will uphold my end of the trade. But Caleb first. And you’ll give us a moment to speak.” Benjamin said, his tone commanding and reassured. Always the bloody diplomat.

There was a silence as Pony-tail considered Ben’s words, deciding whether to let them be or to deny them. but all the while, Caleb only stared—eyes wide with shock as well as narrowed—at Ben.

The man must have agreed—because it was when that Ranger’s strong arm, that abiding, unwelcome force, began to move him that Caleb rediscovered his voice.

“Ben, you dumb bastard!” He roared with as much fervor as he could in his state, which was surprisingly more than he expected—although it was impossible to shake out of the Ranger’s grip, despite the whaler’s best efforts.

Ben was reaching for him then, across the line, until he gripped both Caleb’s forearms with his own. The Ranger’s inescapable force was gone, replaced by touch that was familiar to Caleb—hands that he trusted above all others’. The sensation both comforted and made him sick.

For a moment, Ben and Brewster remained close as he attempted to regain balance, close enough to exchange words for the minute that was demanded.

“What the hell are you doing?” Caleb whispered harshly, gripping Ben’s forearms hard enough to inflict pain. “You were always an idiot, Tallmadge, but tell me you’re not _this_ much of a blo—”

“I’m saving you, all right?” Ben interjected sharply, revealing a slight slip in self-control that Caleb hadn’t noticed before that moment. Benny-boy might look calm, cool, and commanding—but in this proximity, he felt Ben tremble somewhat in his hands.

But it wasn’t because Ben was afraid of his own fate, Caleb realized. Tallboy wasn’t uncertain, scared, or even phased in the slightest way. Caleb watched as Ben’s eyes traced the deep wounds etched in his bared chest, back, arms, face… the blood, some crusted, some fresh, that coated his grimy skin. Caleb saw the rage in Ben’s eyes, in how his jaw tightened, it in the way his hands went cold as they gripped his forearms.

Caleb tried to shake his friend out of it when he understood what the sight was doing to him. “Stop it.”

“This is my fault, Caleb, and I’m setting it right.”

“The hell it is! I’m the one who got caught, you shite.” Caleb felt a desperation he couldn’t stifle force its way to the surface before he could restrain himself. “You’re not doing it.”

“It’s not your decision. You did what you did under my supervision. This— _you_ —are my responsibility.” Ben’s gaze softened then as it met Caleb’s. His quiet tone held less professionalism and more of the Benny-boy Tallmadge that Caleb recognized when he spoke again. “I couldn’t prevent what happened, and Caleb, I’m sorry— but I what I _can_ do now is get you home. And I will.”

“Bastard,” Caleb spat, his own twisted feelings of rage and guilt rearing their ugly heads in a culmination of pure anger. “If you do this, I’ll skin you alive, you hear me?“

Ben’s voice returned to a dangerous calm, though he betrayed it by giving Caleb one firm shake. A jolt to remind Caleb that he was the weaker of the two at present, to remind him who was truly in charge. “You haven’t managed it before, what makes you think you can take me now?”

“Don’t you get it, Ben?” Caleb nearly pleaded, shoving the major right back, though their forearms remained locked.

“I’ll be fine. The laws of—“

Caleb shook his head. “Listen here, you arse—Simcoe won’t uphold any of it. All right? He knows who you are.”

Benjamin’s blue eyes cleared somewhat, and the rage returned, giving off a terrible glow. There was a touch of incredulity in his tone. “ _Simcoe_ did this?”

Caleb pointedly ignored the question. He wasn’t ready to delve into it—into any of it—yet. Maybe he’d never be.

Instead, he tried to appeal to Ben’s sense of reason, if he would not hear him any other way. “What about Washington, eh? The ring? Face it, Ben, you’re more valuable outside a cell than I am, and if you don’t see that you’re bloody blind.”  

“That’s enough!” Ben shouted, and this time, it was loud enough for the companions of both sides to hear. He sighed, relaxing his hold on Caleb’s arms, which had tightened considerably during his outburst. “What’s done is done.”

Caleb’s right hand removed itself from Ben’s grip. It was painful to move, and his brows pulled together as he fought off a wince, but the Whaler managed to settle the hand roughly against the back of the Major’s neck, thumb resting on his jawline.

If only he bloody knew what Caleb had done—what he had _revealed_ under pressure—how he had unraveled all their meticulous work in one instant of weakness. If he just _knew_ , then he would understand.

His grip wasn’t gentle—it was desperate. A last attempt to save someone who didn’t deserve the horrors in store. And Christ, how much worse it would be for Ben under Simcoe’s methods. Caleb’s dark eyes pleaded what he could not put into words. _Don’t. Not you, and sure as hell not for me._

Caleb felt two arms not belonging to the Major weave beneath his and grip his back. Ben gently untangled their arms as the soldiers who accompanied him became Caleb’s new crutch.

“I did what I had to,” Ben said, and Caleb wondered who the reassurance was for, or if he was meant to hear the words at all. “I’ll not apologize.”

With that, the pretense of strength drained completely from Caleb’s weary form, and the nameless soldiers had to take on more of his weight than before. He watched as Ben crossed the territory line—watched as the Ranger that had delivered him to the exchange bound the Major’s hands in front of him.  

And then, the musket shots came. Everything descended into chaos.


	2. To the Bonny Lass I Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Caleb deal with the repercussions of Simcoe, the ambush, and Ben's decision to give himself up. (Hurt & Comfort.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I don't even know what this is. It turned out a lot longer than I thought it would be LOL. The last few episodes just gave me a lot of feelings??? But yeah. Warning: I manipulated the situation to fit my storytelling needs. It's really just lots of angst and hurt and comfort and totally unnecessary but hey, why not? Written late at night, so there may be mistakes I haven't caught yet. 
> 
> More importantish Notes: This takes place after the ambush. Ben and Caleb get outta there and have a much needed heart-to-heart. Unfortunately for Ben, there aren't a million and one distractions to keep him busy enough avoid dealing with what happened to Caleb.

Phantom shots and screams sounded in Ben Tallmadge’s ears long after the silence set in.

 

It was impossible to gauge how much time had passed when he finally stirred; though it felt like an eternity.

 

Gavel bit into his skin as Tallmadge pushed himself up from the ground and away from the corpse he’d fallen against— the body of an ill-fated man who had Benjamin’s knife still embedded between his ribs.

 

Though his features were deceptively impassive, Ben’s breathing was ragged. His hands shook as he tried to swallow down the adrenaline that pounded hard in his chest.  _It’s over_ , he told himself, attempting to let logic calm his body and collect his scattered thoughts. His mind and his body did not seem to understand one another.

 

Their attackers had come out of nowhere.

 

Ben was fully convinced that, had the Queen’s Ranger beside him not noticed that something was amiss before the shots rang out, he would have been one more body to add to the count of the fallen— the list of which included the two lads Ben brought with him from Camp to follow through with the exchange.

 

_Akinbode_ , as Ben had heard the Ranger referred to by one of the (now deceased) British officers, had slit the ropes binding Tallmadge’s wrists when the shots first began to rain down on them.

 

“Get down!” Ben had yelled out, not just to the men under his care, but to _everyone_ —regardless of loyalty status. As the Queen’s Ranger had smartly exemplified when freeing him, enemies would set aside their differences to fight as friends when assaulted by a mutual threat.

 

In the end, not many survived the fight.

 

It was over, almost as soon as it had begun—and Ben was bitterly reminded how quickly one could be robbed of life. His own two men, as well as all those who had escorted Caleb,  _gone_. Dead in one, fatal instant.

 

There were exceptions, among them being the Queen’s Ranger that freed him. After most the attackers were down, Akinbode had fled through the trees with the knowledge that Ben was in no position to give chase, having to remain behind to deal with the rest.  Some of the attackers were drawn off by other fleeing targets. As far as Ben could tell, those few had headed toward the sea, trying to escape by way of the boats they arrived in.

 

All assailants that chose to remain at the territory line now lay dead on the cold earth, their blood mingling with myriads of dry pine needles that unwittingly lined their graves.

 

Ben’s gaze couldn’t help but linger on the bayonet, presently encircled in the pale, lifeless fingers of his last victim. His mind couldn’t help but replay the jarring scene over and over in his head. Tallmadge’s imagination of what  _could_ have happened became progressively worse with each rotation, and the gut-wrenching image of the bayonet’s tip driven through Caleb’s chest soon occupied Ben’s thoughts.

 

He forced himself to look away—looked toward Caleb, instead.

 

Brewster’s head was down. He was still crouched in the same position he’d been in when the attacker had poised his bayonet to strike. Despite the sweat that was fast accumulating on his brow, Ben felt a feather-light shiver run down his spine, disturbed that Caleb was avoiding his eyes.

 

In fact, the whaler wasn’t moving much at all—at a time when Ben _needed_ a response, if only to put his own numerous concerns to rest. Something, anything to quell the tumult of adrenaline coursing through his veins like fire.

 

“Caleb.” Ben did his best to keep the concern out of his voice, but his attempt was futile. “Caleb, look at me.”

 

Brewster’s dark eyes met his after a long moment, peering up beneath dark curls matted with blood. _Whose_ blood, Ben didn’t care to know.

 

Upon closer inspection, Ben could see that Caleb was breathing unsteadily as well— could see the grimaces of pain he made every time he breathed too deep for his body to handle.

 

“Are you with me?” Ben asked tentatively, advancing with care, like one might approach a wounded animal. There was something in Caleb’s eyes that filled Ben with unease— a darknessin themthat had nothing to do with their shade of color.

 

After a moment of consideration, Caleb tried to assume one of his signature grins, though it didn’t fully reach those darkened, weary eyes. Benjamin could barely hear his response through the blare of everything unsaid between them. “Yeah, Tall-boy, always.”

 

Whatever more Caleb had to say would come out later, Ben guessed, when they could speak without looking over their shoulders. Whatever it was… Ben could handle it. Caleb was out of enemy hands, _alive_ —and because of that, it didn’t matter if the whaler was also royally pissed off at him. Through sheer luck, both escaped death by the skin of their teeth, and all he could do now was relish the flood of relief that accompanied the realization.

 

Benjamin drew in one long, steady breath, brushing away strands of hair from his eyes that had come undone during the scuffle. He didn’t want to move Caleb beyond what he could in his current state, but reason told Ben that it was a distinct possibility there might be other brigands in the area.

 

They needed to move—and quickly.

 

“Come on,” Ben said, reaching down to weave an arm around Caleb, helping him to his feet. Brewster drew in a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth, wincing in pain too abrupt to hide when the rough material of Benjamin’s sleeve brushed against a particularly sensitive area. Ben clenched his jaw when he saw there was hardly an inch of Brewster’s skin that didn’t speak of torture.

 

Ben had always been the one to keep a level head through trying circumstances. He was able to separate his personal feelings from the decisions fate would have him make; he could see the bigger picture. When Ben confided in his brother that he feared this quality made him cold—cruel, even— Samuel replied that it was the true mark of a leader to make decisions that others had not the foresight to comprehend; but he also said it was difficult as hell.

 

Ben now felt the true weight of those words.

 

At present, it took a great amount of focus to address the predicament of their current situation, and not to tear the bloodstained shirt from Caleb’s back to unmask the true extent of the damage done. _No,_ Ben couldn’t do that now. It would all be for nothing if they died here, miles and miles away from the nearest friendly camp; the loss of the men who accompanied him would be meaningless.

 

Ben looked somewhat apologetic. “We have to leave. Now.” 

 

“I know.” Caleb sighed, and it was obvious the man was steeling himself for the journey. “All right, let’s get it over with. But Ben.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t think this is over, I ain’t done with you yet.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re no doctor, Benny-boy.” It was the first thing Caleb had said to him in some time.

 

Ben released an impatient breath. “I’m all you’ve got, Brewster.” He squeezed a small, sopping wet cloth in his right hand until most of the water dripped into the basin beneath. “I’ll see that you’re examined properly when we return to camp, but we won’t arrive till tomorrow, at least.”

 

Firelight danced in glowing flecks of orange across Caleb’s face, which wasn’t wrinkled in pain for the first time in the many hours they had traveled together thus far in their return to the Continental Army. For a while, he had even managed to sleep—huddled in the back of the large, wooden cart taken from camp for the exchange while Benjamin had guided it along lesser-known roads and passageways.

 

Ben wondered how long it had been since he slept.

 

“An’ that’s my luck.” Caleb sat on the edge of the wooden cart, the worn tips of his boots just shy of reaching the dusty ground beneath them. “Sure as shite.”

 

He was still wearing the large, blood-stained undershirt that exposed his shoulders and the top of his chest. Ben wouldn’t have allowed him to wear something so threadbare in the chill of evening, but the warmth of the fire he built helped keep both men from succumbing to cold.

 

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Ben retorted, setting the basin—which contained warm water— at the end of the cart beside Caleb’s thigh. He stood there, in front of the cart, with everything before him prepared as best as he could manage.

 

When he and the two men from Camp had set off before dawn that morning, Benjamin hadn’t known what to bring with them for Caleb’s return—the only thing he could think of being a change of clothes, among a few other… odds and ends.

 

The change of clothes had been a good call. Unfortunately, Ben had to disassemble the extra undershirt—which was reasonably clean and good enough to make bandages from. After they set up camp for the night and the fire was blazing, Ben had carefully cut the shirt into strips, making equal sized cloths that he would use to clean Caleb’s more serious wounds.

 

Caleb was right, however. Ben was no doctor; he was equipped only with his own military experience and a basic knowledge of medicine, acquired long ago in his days as a Yale student; days that were dead and gone.

 

For a fleeting moment, he wished that Anna were there— she would have known how best to go about this business. She would have been able to remain strong and calm through it all, just like she had when they were children.

 

But Anna wasn’t there; it was only him, and he needed to face this on his own.

 

“I’m going to remove this,” Ben warned, his free hand fingering the hem of Caleb’s blue-hued shirt.

 

The way Caleb’s muscles tensed made it obvious that he wasn’t looking forward to it—the reluctance of one forced to reveal a closely guarded secret— though he tried to mask any reluctance with his notoriously shitty humor. “Ya know I charge for that sort of thing. An’ you can’t afford me.”

 

“Shut it, you arse,” Ben replied instinctively, who was sure as hell _not_ in the mood for any of Caleb’s halfhearted jabs at humor— though he still searched Caleb’s eyes, waiting for permission. Tallmadge didn’t yet know the extent of what Simcoe had done… physically or mentally. He didn’t want to move too quickly. “Are you ready?”

 

Caleb took one quick breath through the nose, releasing it in a huff. After bracing himself, he gave Ben one, sure nod. Instead of the traditional mirth, his voice sounded weary. “Do your worst, Tall-boy.”

 

Ben found himself tempted to hesitate now—even if before, he had been the one pressing to get it all over with—until the thought of Caleb’s wounds getting infected crossed his mind, and he pushed all qualms aside.

 

Benjamin needed to separate what he _felt_ from what he needed to _do_ , just like always.

 

Tallmadge bore this in mind when he maneuvered the shirt over Caleb’s head—careful not to irritate any of the more obvious gashes with the movement, being as gentle as he could manage.

 

After he had gotten Caleb’s arms free, Ben took the shirt and turned—tossing it into the small fire behind him. The flames crackled and seethed at the bloody fabric hungrily, smoke beginning to billow and rise from the point of contact.

 

“What was that for?” Ben heard Caleb ask behind him, though he himself was looking at the fire.

 

“We’re far enough into friendly territory,” Ben said, his tone short, both defending and deflecting. “This close to camp we need not worry about visibility. It’s filthy, anyway. You’ll need something reasonably sterile, after the wounds are clean.”

 

He didn’t want to tell Caleb that the sight of the blue undershirt made him sick. That he loathed looking at it, remembering the first time he saw Caleb limp towards him, held upright by an enemy mercenary. Bloody and beaten.

 

“..Right.” Caleb didn’t sound convinced, but he let it go.

 

Caleb’s wounds were worse than Ben had originally guessed. Simcoe’s methods spoke of cruelty that was both brutal and personal. Ben’s right hand, which held the moistened strip of clean cloth, tightened its grip until his knuckles were white.

 

“Hell.” For once Caleb remained completely silent, as if pretending he couldn’t see Ben’s reaction.

 

Tallmadge’s eyes followed the long, ugly gashes over Caleb’s chest, torso, and back before his hands had a change to do the same. Most of the lacerations would require stitches. _I’ll bury that bastard._

 

“Here,” Ben said suddenly, bending away from Caleb to pick up a large leather sack in which he stored the change of clothes. He drew out a dark bottle. “You’ll need it.”

 

Caleb’s eyes brightened when they beheld a rather expensive bottle of Madeira, one which he’d smuggled into Ben’s tent a few weeks past. Ben held it out to him in invitation, and Caleb accepted the alcoholic drink immediately.

 

“Why the hell didn’t you lead with this?” Caleb asked with disbelief between swigs. “We might make a doctor of you yet.”

 

Ben wasn’t moved by the attempt at humor. His gaze never left the terrible display carved into Caleb’s skin, judging the severity and need of treatment of each red gash, becoming more tense by the minute.

 

He waited a few moments, allowing Caleb to enjoy the bottle for a short time, before he decided it was enough. Ben easily swiped the bottle from Brewster’s grasp.  

 

This gesture was normal between the two of them, who often shared bottles of illegal goods in the privacy of their tents, so the whaler didn’t protest—at first, anyway. But when Benjamin turned the bottle over and let the liquid fall into Caleb’s open wounds, in order for the alcohol to neutralize the bacteria, he immediately protested.

 

Ben ignored the string of profanities Caleb shouted at him as he set the half-empty bottle aside and began to clean the wounds with the cloth.

 

“D’ya know how much that cost, Ben, you bastard? Next time I go and get me a beautiful bottle of Madeira, don’t expect me to—“

 

“There won’t be a next time.” Ben’s voice was cold, and he didn’t look to see Caleb’s reaction. A small, icy silence fell.

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me, Caleb. This in itself should be proof enough that it’s too dangerous for someone like you to—“

 

Caleb scoffed, and Ben could visualize a grin of disbelief on his bearded face. “Someone like me? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Someone who’s an integral part of the Ring,” Ben began, his voice tempered with simmering fury. Though it wasn’t meant to be directed at Caleb, the whaler was dangerously close to crossing into the line of fire. “Someone who is relied upon by Washington, someone I can’t bloody replace. _That’s_ what I mean by it.”

 

Ben felt Caleb tense beneath the cool, damp cloth, which was now clearing the wound on his left shoulder blade— was it from pain, or from what was said?

 

“That’s a load of shite, _Major_.” Sarcasm dripped from the way Caleb said Ben’s title. He did that, sometimes—wielded the title like a weapon against him.

 

Ben paused, finally looking up to meet Caleb’s eyes. He wasn’t going to slip out of this one; Ben wouldn’t leave any room for misinterpretations. “I’m serious. Savor that Madeira while you can.”

 

“Can’t just go tellin’ me what I can and can’t do, Benny.”

 

Desperation he didn’t fully comprehend—to be heard, to make Caleb _understand_ —mingled with Ben’s anger. “I can, and I will—as an order from your superior. Until we know who to trust, I don’t want—“

 

“Superior, he says,” Caleb cut in, and it was impossible to miss the scornful edge in his tone.

 

Ben instantly knew he’d overstepped. He sighed in resignation, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly with his free hand. “Caleb, that’s not what I…”

 

“Yeah, but it’s what you said. And the same damn standards don’t apply to you, is that right?”

 

The Major opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. The question caught Benjamin off guard. He mulled over the words in his head, momentarily uncertain of what caused them— what Caleb’s point could be.

 

Didn’t he understand? How dangerous his illegal routine was becoming, with how valuable the Ring had become to the war effort? _Especially_ because of how valuable it was?

 

Ben’s incredulity must have shown on his face, because Caleb shook his head and let out a dry laugh. “God, you don’t even see it.”

 

“See what? I’m telling you that It’s too dangerous,” Ben argued, clenching his jaw. He gestured to Caleb’s chest. “Hasn’t this convinced you?”

 

“You can be thick as shite for a Yale man.”

 

“I’m done with your jokes, Brewster.“

 

“Who’s joking?” Caleb reached out then, gripping Ben’s wrist to stop him from continuing his work. His voice gained speed and volume as he kept going, and when he started, it seemed difficult to stop. “You want to talk about what I did? Let’s talk about what you did. You were going to give yourself up.”

 

“Caleb—“

 

“There was no reason, no caution. You give me orders to keep out of the fray because _, it’s too dangerous_ , the bloody same day you hand yourself over to the enemy without two thoughts? You’re the one joking, Ben, and it’s funny as shite.”  

 

Ben was silent at first, needing to overcome the initial surprise of Caleb’s outburst before he could deploy a rebuttal. It was a full minute before the Major spoke again.

 

“ _That’s_ what this is about?” His voice was disbelieving, and the thought of his accusations turned Ben’s blood to ice. “That was not the same.”

 

“How the hell is it different?”

 

“Because _this is my fault_!” Ben shouted abruptly, wrenching his arm violently from Caleb’s grip, who fell silent at the outburst.

 

As Ben continued, he realized the truth of his own words for the first time. “You. This. _Simcoe._ If I kept my word to Abe back then, if I’d listened to you, none of this would have happened.”

 

Caleb’s dark eyes were windows into his mind; Ben could see the realization sweep across them slowly, and then, a terrible resolve. He suddenly looked much more fragile—self loathing and guilt ridden, in Ben’s eyes. This was _not_ how Caleb Brewster should look. It disturbed Ben to see it.

 

“I told him.”

 

_That_ stifled Ben’s anger, stopped the fiery words on his tongue not yet unleashed.

 

“—What?”

 

“I told Simcoe.”

 

“What did you tell him?”

 

“About Abe, about— I don’t… I don’t know. I can’t remember it all, I lost time.”

 

An cold silence slipped between them while Ben tried to comprehend the information—till just as suddenly as Caleb had confessed, Ben found himself shaking his head. “No, you didn’t.”

 

“Shit, Ben, didn’t you hear me?”

 

“Did you sign a confession?”

 

Caleb fell silent a moment, his dark eyes assuming a contemplative glow. “I didn’t sign a damn thing.”

 

“Then he has no proof.”

 

“You don’t understand, Ben, he _knows_. I could see it in his eyes. The second he knew who was being traded for me—“

 

Ben’s adamant voice surprised even himself, but somehow, he felt it was warranted. “It doesn’t matter, Caleb. Nothing matters if he hasn’t the proof to show for it.”

 

“What if I told him about Townsend?” The look of weary fear in Caleb’s eyes caused Ben’s stomach to twist in knots.

 

“You didn’t,” he said again.

 

For a moment, all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire behind them. Ben slowly began to reapply the cloth to Caleb’s shoulder, clearing away the dried blood from his skin with gentle strokes.

 

Caleb wasn’t looking Ben. The guilt was palpable in his tone when he responded. Though still—there was just the slightest hint of something inside the whaler that wanted to believe Tallmadge’s words. “An’ how do you know for sure?”

 

Ben didn’t need to consider his reply for one second. “Because I know you, Caleb Brewster.” He grinned a little, for the first time trying his own hand at a bit of humor. “You’re stubborn as hell.”

 

Caleb smirked unexpectedly. “I am that.”

 

For a moment, he looked a bit more like the old Caleb Brewster again. Ben was glad of it. Even so—there was still a large sense of foreboding that surrounded the subject that the two had inadvertently breached. Tallmadge’s eyes sought out Caleb’s, silently asking the question that he wouldn’t dare ask aloud—the one Brewster had been avoiding since their reunion, till now.

 

_What happened in that room?_

 

But Caleb looked away from him again, and with that, the cracks in his features that’d revealed vulnerability were gone.

 

He wasn’t ready to speak of it; Ben didn’t blame him.

 

Judging by the way Caleb was biting the inside of his cheek and the obvious body language to suggest he was closing himself off from the topic, Ben knew it wasn’t the right time. Brewster would likely need one—or five—bottles of Madeira before he would reveal anything about the long, terrible hours spent with Simcoe behind closed doors… beyond the reach of help or comfort of sanity.  

 

Benjamin would wait, and be there to listen when Caleb decided he was ready. He wouldn’t push for any details the other wasn’t mentally prepared to disclose.

 

“I’ve got some more good news for you,” Benjamin spoke up at last, changing the subject with his tone. He didn’t miss the way Caleb’s shoulders relaxed in response. Perhaps, in gratitude. Ben grimaced slightly as he dropped the soiled cloth back into his water-filled basin. “You need stiches.”

 

The whaler instantly shook his head. “I appreciate all this, Benny-boy, but the day I let you near me with a needle an’ thread will be the one that ol’ King Georgie gives lap dances.”

 

“It’s a good thing I don’t need you to let me, then.”

 

Caleb arched a brow. “What, because you’re my ‘superior’?”

 

“Because you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to,” Ben said, perfectly serious, but still within the perimeters of the good-natured banter they were accustomed to.

 

“Right _now_ , maybe,” Caleb muttered, indignant, his eyes following the tip of the needle that Ben drew from the leather sack of clothes. “Don’t get cocky, Tall-boy.”

 

The corner of Ben’s mouth quirked upward in amusement, but gave no other response as he began to concentrate on the needle and thread pinched between his thumb and index finger.

 

Culper’s ring would survive this. They would _all_ survive this; Benjamin would ensure it.

 

Caleb somehow regained possession of the Madeira when Tallmadge started with the needle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this weird drabble of a thing! Leave a comment and I will shower you with cookies and flowers <3 I'm planning on one more installment, if you guys are up for it- one where Caleb is drunk enough to tell Ben what happened with Simcoe. 
> 
> Aaaanyway enjoy the rest of this incredibly painful season of Turn~~~


	3. Till the Stars Fall From the Sky, My Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb isn't the same. Ben ignores it; Anna's had enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! If there's still anyone there. 
> 
> This takes place after Caleb and Ben made it back to camp, a few weeks later maybe. As in the canon version, Ben has been rude. xD Enjoy~

Major Tallmadge was sitting hunched forward on his cot when Anna Strong slipped into the tent unannounced.

Strands of hair had slipped from Ben’s messy braid, likely from hours bending over the large stack of letters in his hands. His eyes were weary from straining. The hour was late, and like the past few nights, he’d not been able to sleep. Despite his tiring body, however, Ben’s mind remained alert and attentive—and when he heard the sound of his tent brushing against the straw-like grass, he looked up. Parchment crumpled in his grip when their eyes met.

“Anna,” he blurted, eyes widening. “What are you—“

She didn’t give him time to finish. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ben found himself stunned into silence. Anna wasted no time in marching up to him, gaze sharp. She held her classic defiant posture: chin tilted up with lips pressed firmly together in that way of hers which warned the Setauket boys of a coming lecture. Curiosity at what incited her anger battled his own at the intrusion.

“What?” Tallmadge set the letters aside without looking away; his voice lowered. “Look, if this is about Culper…”

For a moment, Anna looked equally as taken aback. “Wh— No, no. This has nothing to do with Abe. This is about you _._ ”

“Me?” Benjamin stood from his perch, more perplexed than affronted, as was evident by the wrinkle in his brows. He had a good four or five inches on Anna. Still, even with their difference in height, she was none the less frightening.

Anna Strong held his gaze. “You, Major. You and your astounding level of ignorance, stupidity and blindness to the plight of others.”

“Ignorance? Blindness?” Ben brushed away the stray hairs in his face. _Now_ he was offended—those words were not welcoming to one who held the title ‘Head of Intelligence’. “What grounds do you have for these accusations?”

Anna released a single, bitter laugh. “You don’t see it? It happens right in front of you, and you really can’t see past your own agenda? Perhaps everyone working to further it blinds you to all else.”

Ben chose to be silent then, swallowing his ire and prompting her to continue with a questioning shake of his head. What could she possibly be referring to? _Unless she’d spoken to Mary…_ No, that wasn’t likely.

Instead of answering right away, Anna stepped back, putting a little distance between them, surveying his tent. “Where’s Caleb?” The mocking tone suggested she already knew the answer. Ben’s eyes narrowed at the woman, but he could only guess at the trail of her thoughts.

“It’s late,” he said, guarded. “He’s resting in his tent, as should every man at this hour.”

“Wrong. He’s out in the ravine throwing that bloody tomahawk, like he’s been doing for the past several nights since the exchange.”

A pang of guilt hit Ben, and now he had an idea of where this conversation was headed. He broke eye contact, gaze ducking from Anna’s piercing one. Before he had a change to interject, she started in again.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Strong continued, encouraged by his reaction. “You’re not the only one who hasn’t been able to sleep- don’t think I haven’t noticed. And I know Caleb has shared none of that with you, just as you have shared none of _this_ with him.”

Her tone shifted suddenly; it was lower. “But I’ve been… _worried_ about him. Since Simcoe. He hardly eats, he rarely sleeps, and when he does, it’s never without a weapon.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” Ben scoffed.

Anna’s gaze shifted from being accusatory to pleading in the briefest of seconds, matching the inflection of her words. “Can’t you see that he’s not right, Ben?”

Ben might’ve liked to disagree with her—no, he wanted nothing more than to do so. Benjamin wanted to disregard Anna’s words, to pretend all consequences away without a second thought.

But he _did_ see it.

Caleb didn’t smile as much as he used to. He was quieter, either keeping to himself entirely or spending long hours in Ben’s tent as the Major rambled on about stratagem. Brewster’s heart and head, Ben wanted to believe, were where they should be, but the skip in his step and the spark in his eyes were all but gone.

Ben did see, but avoided acknowledging it because the mere thought of _why_ filled him with all forms of hateful anger. Because if he acknowledged it, then it would be real, and Ben would have to face the fact— _really_ face it—that Caleb was damaged irreparably because of a mistake _he_ made. And he _—_

No. Acknowledging meant admitting defeat, and Ben wasn’t ready to do that.

“He’s fine, Anna.” He said, though the words did not come easily. They sorely lacked conviction. “Now if that’s all, I suggest you return to your own tent. You’ll only worsen the rumors about us if you force your way inside at dead of night.”

Unfortunately for Ben, Anna picked up on what they both already knew, pulling apart his lie as easily as she could when they were children. “You don’t believe that. You may be an ignorant bastard for speaking to him in the way that you have of late, but you’ve noticed it, just as much as I have.”

When he began shaking his head in what might have been denial, Anna straightened. “This is not an emotional plea, Ben. I’m telling you this, Head of Intelligence, because _you_ are our handler. You’re responsible for the success of our operations. If you’re not interested in the mental state of your own agents, you limit the value of this Ring, if not completely jeopardize it.” 

Benjamin released sigh. He might have justified ignoring her pleas, but he could not refute her logic. He wondered how long she’d been waiting to tell him. “What would you have me do, Anna?”

“Ever since I’ve been here, and I imagine for the better part of this war— he’s been your support.” Anna shifted from lecturer to confidant when she knew Ben’s full attention was hers. “But now, it’s him who needs yours, Ben. Caleb won’t listen to anyone else.”

“Surely it’s not—“

“He won’t listen to anyone else,” Anna interrupted calmly, “because he believes he’s failed you.”

Ben paused. He shook his head, looking at her as if she claimed the sky was purple. “He could never—he hasn’t _failed_ me, Anna. Caleb may doubt himself, but you and I both know he didn’t say anything to Simcoe.”

“You know that, and I know that,” she agreed, nodding in a way a teacher might when their pupil finally grasped a concept. “Make sure he does as well.”

Ben met her eyes then, and his shoulders fell somewhat as the tension in them abated. The anger was still there—powerful and simmering, but for the most part, dormant. Anna was right, and they both knew it.

He couldn’t go on ignoring it forever, especially if it put Caleb and other members of the Ring in danger.

“I’ll talk to him,” Ben promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yeah, sort of pissed at Ben's attitude toward the end of the season- I really wanted him to have a lecture from Anna like this.) 
> 
> UP NEXT - Ben and Caleb sort things out. 
> 
> Hope you've all had time to recover after that finale! Anyway, yep, this chapter is sort of the prelude to the bigger confrontation between Ben and Caleb, which will be the chapter that concludes this AU story. Leave a comment if you enjoyed this, it really makes a writer's day. <3 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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